


Laddie in the pleats, Soldier in the sheets

by jamlockk



Series: Alba!lock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Fluff and Smut, Kilt!Lock, Kilts, M/M, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, POV Sherlock Holmes, Scottish John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's former colleague Bill Murray is getting married. Sherlock wants to surprise John but gets more than he bargained for!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laddie in the pleats, Soldier in the sheets

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no excuses for this. Except that I wanted to write Sherlock trying (and failing) to get into a kilt to surprise John. And I wanted to put John in one of these [gorgeous RRoS uniforms](<a%20href=).

Sherlock fiddles with the buckles on the sporran, brushes his fingertips over the soft fur and tassels, and then gently, reverently, lays the sporran down on the bed again. He steps back, all the better to admire the full outfit spread out on the bed in all its glory. He's currently wearing only a towel, fresh out of the shower and about to put it all on. He desperately wants John to like it, this is especially for him. Sherlock rubs the tartan between his fingers, savouring the feel of the rough wool against his skin. John is sure to like this, appreciate the sentimental gesture, he won't be at all offended. So Sherlock hopes.

 

He stands there a few more minutes, itching to pull on every part of the outfit and at the same time, wishing he could drag out the anticipation even longer. Finally he can't put it off any more. It's getting late and John will be back to pick him up soon. He must be ready to greet him in the sitting room, so John can tell him if he's got it right. And... maybe... maybe John will tell Sherlock he looks nice. That would be… nice. Anyway. Time to dress.

 

Sherlock doesn't know any of the people who will be at Bill Murray's wedding, all he knows is that John has been excited to go for weeks. Murray is the medic who saved John's life when he was shot, providing the immediate aid and pulling John to cover. For this alone, Sherlock already owes a man he has never met an unpayable debt. So it is for these two reasons that Sherlock is subjecting himself to what will no doubt be the crushing boredom of Murray's wedding to Alison (not a natural blonde, two sisters, broke her left arm when she was seven, dotes on John. Not a threat, is clearly hopelessly in love with Murray).

 

John, as an usher, had needed to be at the venue a little early, and had dashed off first thing this morning to check on things before getting ready with Murray and the best man. He'd come back to pick up Sherlock and they'd head along to the wedding together.

 

"Ah winnae be turnin' up a' by masel'," John had said, "Ah'll be arrivin' wi' a stunningly gorgeous laddie on ma airm." He'd winked then, pretending to turn back to his paper and smiling to himself at the pink flush that had crept across Sherlock's face. Thinking about it now, the blush comes back. John thinks he's stunningly gorgeous. The thought that this beautiful, wonderful man thinks he's stunningly gorgeous and wants to wait for him so they can be seen as a couple for the first time - at John's friend's wedding - causes a warm tickle to settle under Sherlock's towel. He quickly pushes it away. 

 

Besides, he's still more nervous than he'd care to admit about John seeing him wear a kilt. He'd gone back to Mycroft's tailor, knowing full well his brother would frown disapprovingly when he saw the bill. Sherlock didn't care, he wanted to show John how much he meant to him and well, he wanted to wear the kilt.

 

John looked incredible wearing it for that quaich case they'd had. That case would always be indelibly imprinted in Sherlock's heart as it had ended with their very first kiss. He has stored every moment, every texture, every sensation of that first night in his mind palace, a secret room which holds only John. And that kilt. Something about the heavy tartan, the fur of the sporran, the sgian dubh, the kilt pin. All of the details flow into focus in his mind as he closes his eyes and visualises how he himself might look. How they might look standing together. Hopefully John will be in a kilt as well, no reason for him not to be. John had been strangely quiet on the subject though and not wishing to push too hard and make him rescind his invitation, Sherlock had avoided deducing anything about John's outfit for the wedding. One could only hope that it involved tartan in some way.

 

Pulling himself back to the present, Sherlock gazes lovingly once more at the spread of clothing on the bed. Inhaling sharply he discards the towel in the corner beside the wardrobe. Ignoring the goosepimples prickling along his arms and legs, and the sharp stab of self-consciousness at seeing his naked body reflected in the wardrobe mirror, Sherlock picks up the shirt and puts it on. He draws the white sleeves up slowly, carefully pushing each button through its hole, straightening the cufflinks as he secures them at his wrists.

 

Kilt next. He lifts the heavy weight of material, drapes it around his middle as he'd seen the kilt maker do, and promptly drops the whole thing in a heap at his feet. Frowning, he picks it up and tries again. Only to find it swiftly falls and puddles around his ankles. A third attempt ends in a buckle smacking off his calf as the kilt once again lands on the floor instead of being wrapped snugly around Sherlock's waist.

 

"I have an unspeakably high IQ, this should not be taxing," he mumbles, disgusted with his failure so far. Still grumbling, Sherlock tries a different tactic.

 

He pushes all the other items: waistcoat, socks, tie, flashes to the head of the bed and lays the kilt out over the end. Then he turns around and tries to roll himself into it. This, it seems, is also not the way one puts on one's kilt, as Sherlock discovers when he lands on the hardwood floor, a buckle jabbing into his bum and making him cry out in frustration.

 

"Whoa, fit are ye daen doon ‘ere, love?"

 

Sherlock's head snaps up at the sound of that familiar voice, a fond note of amusement in John's tone. Feeling very silly and annoyed at himself, Sherlock opens his mouth to snap about trying to surprise John when he registers how John is dressed. He knows he is gaping, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as it dries up at the sight before him, but he can't help himself.

 

John is dressed in a kilt. But not just any kilt. John is wearing the ceremonial dress of the Royal Regiment of Scotland, his regiment.

 

The buffed and polished shoes, the brilliantly white gaiters, leading up to the red and black hose tops. The scarlet flashes and sgian dubh, the glorious kilt, the sporran with its black tassels, the white cross belt and dark green jacket with soft gold piping. Stretched across John's powerful chest from his left shoulder, the crimson sash, to which his medals are pinned, signifying his rank and displaying his medals. Those lovely deep eyes crinkle as he smiles, and he taps a finger to the Glengarry in its perfect placement on his head. Drawing back his shoulders John executes a sharp salute. The cheeky grin he wears is probably not strictly regulation, but Sherlock doesn't care.

 

John is indescribably beautiful right now. A hot sear of desire rips through Sherlock's body and he shivers, still sitting open-mouthed on the floor. He feels his cock hardening rapidly under the tartan he's tangled in. The warmth of arousal that he'd felt curling deep in his belly before he'd even picked up the kilt and tried to put it on is back. Only now, in John's presence, it's already building, a low, sultry pressure in his groin. Oh God, not now.

 

He drops his eyes to his hands, fisted in the tartan of his own kilt, unable to look at John anymore. When John takes a step forward and reaches down to him, he shies away, scooting across the floor and scraping his bum on the buckle again. John cannot touch him, absolutely cannot touch him or kiss him or do anything, for fear that he will come right there and then.

 

"Fit's a dae?" John asks, crouching down and tilting his head in concern. "Are ye needin' a wee bitty help getting’ a' 'at oan?"

 

Sherlock doesn't answer, he can't. He's frozen, too afraid to speak in case he blurts out something stupid, too turned on to meet John's eyes. He stands swiftly, gathering the kilt in his hands to hold in front of his erection, hiding it from view. John mustn't see, if he can just calm down a bit, he can then ask John to help him get the outfit on properly, they can go to this wedding and he will stand next to his beautiful John in his regimental tartan.

 

"Ah kin help, love. Ah dinnae mind, in fact ah think it's lovely 'at ye've got yersel' a Watson tartan tae wear," John says. Sherlock blushes fiercely, still refusing to meet John's eye. He wasn't entirely sure if John would notice the tartan, but there was no way he was going to wear anything but John's clan colours.

 

"It's fine, John," he finally says quietly. "I'll just..."

 

"Well, ahm nae haen' 'at," John says. "Gies the kilt, ah'll pit it oan ye."

 

Oh no. Oh no no no. If he hands over the kilt John will see how far gone he is. No! Sherlock grips the fabric even tighter, and turns his body away from John.

 

"Oh fir... Give me the kilt, Sherlock. Now."

 

It's John’s commanding Captain Watson tone, with just a hint of his Scottish lilt in it, that does it in the end. It washes over him in a euphoric wave, his legs quiver and he drops to his knees as his orgasm rushes through him. Sherlock comes hard, untouched, into the inside of his rented Watson tartan kilt.

 

When he finally opens his eyes John is crouching beside him again, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His face is open and his eyes are dark. John licks his lips and Sherlock follows the movement of that sliver of pink tongue as it darts across John's mouth and disappears again. He desperately wants to chase it, rub his own against it, have John claim him in that commanding, military voice. If he could be, Sherlock is certain he would be hard again.

 

"Did you..." John starts. He takes a deep breath and pauses. Sherlock feels the cold, bitter creep of shame in his belly, eradicating all warmth left by his climax.

 

"Did... Did you... come, just then?" John eventually asks, his voice low and rough. Sherlock can't deny it, there's no hiding the mess he's made in the pleats he's holding. He nods once, the smallest of movements with his head.

 

"Oh fuck, that's hot," John breathes, standing up and pushing his sporran round to rest on his hip. "Oh, oh fuck, that's... That's so fucking hot, Sherlock," he says. His hand is under his own kilt now, and Sherlock can see he's stroking himself. The icy shame vanishes instantly, a soft warmth taking its place.

 

"Oh God, your face," John is sighing, "Your face when you just came like that, you... Oh, fuck you looked gorgeous just then, Sherlock, you know that, right?" With his other hand John strokes Sherlock's cheek and tips his chin up so their eyes meet at last. John strokes himself harder and moans loudly.

 

Struck by a flash of inspiration, and not wanting John to ruin his wedding clothes, Sherlock crawls forward on his knees and lifts John’s kilt so he can get it over his own head. He lets the weight drop over him and breathes in the musky, masculine, intoxicating scent of the material, male arousal and John, sighing happily as he noses at John's groin. Of course John is true once again, nothing under his kilt except his lovely, warm skin.

 

Pushing John's hand away, Sherlock tentatively licks at the head of John's cock. The reaction above him is wonderful, a sharp gasp and a stutter of his name. Emboldened, Sherlock draws his tongue up John's length, eliciting deep moans and a hand grasping at his head through the kilt.

 

Delighted, Sherlock takes as much of John in his mouth as he can, resting his hands on the tops of John's thighs to steady himself. 

 

"Oh fuck, Sherlock! I'm... I'm not going... Oh! To... to last much longer, God!" John cries out. The sound of John's voice so wrecked by arousal make Sherlock moan low in his throat, and his cock gives a surprising twitch of interest in proceedings. John cries out again, fists bunching in the fabric covering Sherlock's head. Sherlock vows next time they do this, he'll make John sink his fingers into Sherlock's hair and stroke his scalp. For now though, he settles for laving up and down John's cock, taking as much in as he can before moving back to tongue at the head, swirling around the slit and lapping up the precome leaking there.

 

The taste is exquisite in Sherlock's opinion and he would happily do this for hours. He presses a kiss to the slit, pulls back to lick his lips, then pushes confidently forward, carrying on until he feels the tip of John's cock touch the back of his throat. The sensation is incredible and Sherlock can't stop himself moaning again. The vibrations in his throat push John over the edge and he yells as Sherlock's mouth is suddenly filled with pulses of warm fluid. Greedily Sherlock swallows down everything, licking gently at John’s softening cock until a hand in his hair pulls him from under the kilt.

 

He looks up at John, who is running his hands through Sherlock's hair and gazing adoringly down at him. There's such love in those eyes, Sherlock thinks dazedly. Even though he must look absolutely awful right now; sweaty, panting, lips red and swollen, saliva dripping down his chin and come at the corner of his mouth. John smiles lazily as he reaches down with his thumb, swipes away the come and presses his thumb to Sherlock's lips. He groans and covers his eyes with his arm when Sherlock eagerly opens his mouth and sucks John’s thumb in, licking the drop off the tip with his tongue.

 

"Ah, fuck, dinnae," John groans, "Ah cannae go again sae soon and wi' you lookin' like 'at, daen' 'at! Jist, dinnae!"

 

Sherlock gets up off his knees, letting the ruined kilt fall from his hands. John pulls him into a hug and he melts into the embrace, careful not to mark any part of John's dress uniform.

 

"I'm sorry John. I wanted to surprise you but now, now my kilt is ruined," Sherlock mumbles into John's shoulders. "I could wear one of my suits perhaps, but I understand. If, that is, if you no longer want me to join you." Strong hands either side of his head make him look up and into those eyes he loves so very much. John is grinning widely, and he drops a light kiss onto the tip of Sherlock's nose.

 

"Nae chance," he says firmly. "You're coming wi' me, and you're wearing yer kilt."

 

"John, it has come on it."

 

"Aye, ah ken 'at," John laughs, "it'll still look affy bonny on ye though."

 

Sherlock looks dubiously down at the ruffled tartan, raising one eyebrow as he turns back to John. "Wipe it first. “John laughs again, nodding his agreement. "There's time for that. Gies it here, ah'll clean it aff a bitty." He straightens his own kilt and moves his sporran back to settle at his front before taking the kilt from Sherlock and heading to the bathroom in search of a damp flannel.

 

"John?" Sherlock asks.

 

"Hm?"

 

"Will there be other of your former colleagues among the guests today?"

 

"Oh, ye mean ony ether sudjers? A' the nice laddies love a sudjer!" John cheers.

 

Sherlock frowns. It's sailor, isn't it? John comes back through and helps him into the kilt, fastening the buckles at his sides and doing up the sporran at his back. He steps back to admire as Sherlock puts on his shoes, flashes, waistcoat and jacket. John grabs the sgian dubh and turns it over in his hands.

 

"Tae answer yer question, aye, there'll be a couple mair o' us in regimental dress aday. Nae Bill, but mebbe a couple ithers. But ahm yer sudjer, and naebdy else is gonnae tak' ye awa' fae me," John proclaims. He brushes Sherlock's shoulders and runs his arms down the jacket sleeves, a fond smile on his face. His eyes are full of mischief when he steps back and, winking, beckons Sherlock to take his arm.

 

"Cab's here," he says unnecessarily. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Right. Into battle. John opens the door for him. Just as Sherlock passes, John drops his voice, leans up and whispers in his ear.

 

"Onaway, fit's in yer pleats'll jist be the start. Ah've got a few ideas noo, and ahm plannin' tae ruin 'at lovely outfit mair than once again aday."

 

Sherlock hardly remembers getting downstairs and into the cab, but at some point he must've done. John's words, a promise, echo in his head. This wedding will be most definitely not boring.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I realise I am totally messing within John's regiment and backstory in canon here. To that I say, meh. I put John in a gorgeous kilt and I give no fucks.


End file.
